


Zugunruhe

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: Level 10: Agents of Shield Fic [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Kree (Marvel), Mental Instability, POV Phil Coulson, Phil Coulson Needs a Hug, Post-Episode: s01e22 Beginning of the End, Tahiti is a Magical Place, hypergraphia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:53:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4394417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hydra's lost this battle, but Coulson can't sleep.  There's something he needs to do.  <i>It wants us to know.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Zugunruhe

**Author's Note:**

> Zugunruhe: the German word for the restlessness and anxiety shown in migratory animals.

Coulson’s footsteps are quiet.  He shuffles softly on the slick floor in his bare feet, looking for something.  He isn’t sure what.  His mouth is set in a thin line, his face grim, as he searches.

He rubs his hands against the side of his sweatpants, the cotton catching against his palm.  His hands need to move and he doesn’t know why.  He only knows that he lay in bed for three hours, unable to sleep, growing increasingly restless.  He has to do something.  He has to –

The board coated with Garrett’s writing comes into focus.  Even in the dim light it’s striking, white lines in the clear glass.  It’s beautiful, almost, even if it came from the mind of a madman.  There’s still something pure about it that makes his chest tighten.  Coulson reaches up and lets his fingertips ghost over the carvings, feels the depth of the etching, the fine bits of ground glass still scarcely palpable on the edges on the incisions.  

 _It wants us to know,_  he thinks, and shakes the thought away as quickly as it comes.  Something Garrett must have said, he thinks.  He takes a deep breath.

He looks past the board to the stacks of confiscated equipment behind it.  He sees then what he’s looking for; there’s an urgency in his steps and in the way he reaches out to take the utility knife in his hand.  He glances upward and sees before him a blank wall.

He’s thrumming, nerves and muscles fired up, trembling with a sudden need.  He clears the distance to the wall and raises his hands.

Coulson exhales.   _Finally._

He meets the wall, eager, almost  _hungry_  for contact.  His left hand is a fist against the surface for support, his right hand gripping the knife like a pen.  Its sharp tip sinks into the wall like it was made for it.  He drags the knife right in a smooth, straight line, then flares the tip outward in a diamond.  

Another line.  Another.  Another.  Some lines sprout others in constellations, small branches leading away from them into forms linear, rhomboid, round.  Others are short, a mere sentence in the story that emerges from the tip of his knife.  There’s a poetry to this work; it’s almost like it sings to him, though he can’t hear the words.  He carves.

Bits of dust flake down from the lines and forms spreading their way across the wall.  They cling to the soles of his feet, get stuck in the fine hairs on his toes.  He starts a new line, sharp and clean, in an empty part of the wall.  There’s so much still to do.  So much he needs to do.  He shakes with it.

Coulson isn’t sure how much time has passed.  He begins to notice an ache in his arms and shoulders from leaning forward, pressing his weight into the knife, digging the blade into the wall.  He has to stretch upward now, his arms overhead.  He blinks away dust that falls into his eyes.  

Part of him wants to stop.  Part of him says he needs to get May, needs to tell her something is wrong.  He’s genuinely sore now, muscles protesting as he gets down on his knees, bending over to one side so he can carve on the lower portion of the wall.  He twists and contorts himself, back muscles searing, shoulders tight.  He lets his left arm hang down by his side instead of keeping it up to press his hand against the wall, but he can only manage that for a little while before he needs the extra support.  His right hand shivers with the continued effort of holding the knife.

But the part of him that keeps his hand moving still thrums with need.  The idea of leaving to get May, of  _stopping_ , is unbearable.  Even the thought of interrupting himself makes him agitated, and he soothes himself with another circle, another line.  It feels so  _right_  under the blade.  Satisfying, somehow, but he needs more.  There has to be more.  He can’t stop yet.

He pants, sweat beading on his forehead, trickling down his cheeks.  He breathes through his mouth, the breaths short and ragged.  His hand keeps moving.  Just a little longer.  He doesn’t know how he knows it, but he’s almost there.

Finally he steps back, jerkily, from the wall.  He straightens up.  It’s difficult after spending so much time tensed and focused.  His hands lower to his sides, and his grip on the knife slackens until it drops to the ground with a clatter that startles him.  His chest rises and falls, his breathing slowing.  

Coulson looks at the writing, seeing it as if for the first time.  It makes no sense to him.  It sprawls across the wall for yards, writ high and low, patterns repeating in stark relief.  There’s so  _much_  of it.

His neck and shoulders ache.  His arms and right hand throb, and he wavers slightly on his feet, suddenly aware of his own exhaustion.  He glances mechanically at his watch.  It’s six in the morning.  He’s been down here for hours; no wonder he feels ready to pass out.

Coulson closes his eyes.  The need, the want, the  _compulsion_  is gone.

It’s replaced by fear.

He leaves footsteps in white dust through the storage area.  He finds May downstairs, her mat set out, halfway through her morning tai chi.  He doesn’t want to do this, but he doesn’t see that he has a choice.

May flows easily into a new pose and catches sight of him, standing by the door in the shadows.  “You’re up early,” she says.  “Trouble sleeping?”

“I’m Director now.  I never sleep,” he says automatically, the joke fumbling as he says it.

She must hear something in his voice, because she leaves her mat and walks toward him, her eyebrow slightly raised.  “Is something wrong –”

She stops a few feet away, gazing at him.  He looks down at himself.  Even with his black shirt he can see the sweat stains on the neck and underarms.  He can feel the sweat still beaded on his hair and forehead.  More damning than that is the white powder on his hands, dusted against the front of his shirt, smudging his knees where he’d knelt on the ground, coating the tops of his feet.

“Phil.  What’s going on?”  Her voice is quiet and her face is set in calm composure as always, but he sees the way she has gone very still.

Coulson opens his mouth, tries to say something, frowns instead.  He doesn’t know how to explain it to her.  He doesn’t know how to explain it to himself, either, but he’s Director now.  He knows he can’t allow himself the luxury of keeping this secret, not when he remembers the mad light in Garrett’s eyes.  He can’t let that happen again.

She closes the distance between them, lays a hand on his arm.  “Please tell me.”

Coulson’s mouth quirks down at the edges, and he looks past May, swallowing.  He nods.  “Maybe –”  His mouth is dry, and the words are difficult to force out.  “Maybe it’s better if I show you.”

She follows him back, Coulson leading her along the trail of smeared white footprints.  She’s quiet at his side.  He can feel, rather than see, her worry, but it’s eclipsed by the fear uncoiling itself in the pit of his stomach.

They walk past Garrett’s carving, and May stops, seeing what he’s done.

Coulson looks at the wall, then to May’s face.  There’s a look of horror, faint but real, behind her eyes, and the fear inside him flickers, growing stronger.

“You did this?  All of this?” she asks.

Coulson’s hands clench convulsively at his sides.  With an effort he relaxes them.  “Yes.”  His voice is a choked whisper.  He pauses for a moment, not trusting himself to speak.  

May steps forward, bends down, picks up the knife.  She straightens up, staring steadily at him.

Coulson wipes his hands on his shirt, slips them into the pockets of his sweatpants, looks down at his bare feet.  “Will you help me?” he asks softly.

He glances up.  She smiles, slightly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.  Too much worry in the way.  “Of course,” she says.

Her words help a little, but the fear within him still lingers.  He looks at the knife in May’s hands, remembers how it felt in his, and the carvings stare back at him like a promise.

There’s a thought in his mind, faint like an echo, but it’s gone before he can pin it down.

_It wants us to know._

**Author's Note:**

> I used some of my own experiences with dermatillomania and trichotillomania to describe Coulson's state of mind during this episode. Both conditions are very similar and the compulsion to pick skin or pull hair can be overwhelming; even when one becomes physically tired by the action, there's still a need to continue that can be irresistible. It also doesn't help that there is often a component where the behavior feels soothing or even pleasant, even while your brain also recognizes it's an unhealthy coping mechanism, even while it's also uncomfortable. Stupid brains. Anyway, Coulson's agitation but singlemindedness during these episodes reminded me very strongly of that set of feelings. Had to fic about it. *g*


End file.
